


Poisoned Darts of Pleasure

by Sandrene09



Series: Tumblr Prompts [11]
Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There’s a line, he thinks.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>He doesn’t know where it is, but he knows for a fact that he and Anthony have crossed that line a long time ago.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poisoned Darts of Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> For Kalina, who wanted a fic where Anthony uses Ian for sex while Ian is in love with him. We’re both sluts for pain and suffering, so really, we shouldn’t be surprised I’m filling this prompt. Title taken from Franz Ferdinand’s “Darts of Pleasure” (which I obviously don’t own). This was written for Fanfiction Day 2015.

This can’t be healthy.

Ian knows it isn’t healthy. He knows that he probably has a problem, knows for a fact that this isn’t something normal best friends do, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can’t bring himself to care when he knows that he would rather have this than nothing at all.

Ugh. He sounds like a trashy Harlequin novel. He should probably stop with the cheesy lines.

The thing is, as much as he would like to say that he doesn’t enjoy this—and _oh_ how he wishes that he could go on without this—he can’t. No matter how many times he tries to stop, the words he’d prepared beforehand always somehow fade in his mouth like cotton candy the moment he sees Anthony. He’s an addict, always desperate for one last fix.

And now—well. Now is not an exception.

Ian gasps as Anthony slams him against his bedroom door, hands reaching up to pin Ian’s hands above his head. Ian closes his eyes and gives in to Anthony, his body relaxing against the door, his tongue dancing with grace instead of force. A moan makes its way out of his mouth when one of Anthony’s hands slithers down his front and settles on his hip.

It feels like a brand, somehow, feels a little bit like Anthony showing everyone that Ian is his despite there being no one else to see them in the privacy of Ian’s bedroom. Ian relishes in it, allows himself to lean his head back and bare his neck, because fuck if it isn’t hot, thinking about Anthony kissing him and marking him all over for everyone to see. The ultimate proof to uncover the secret, he thinks, or at least, _would_ think if he still had the capacity for higher brain functioning.

Anthony pulls away from the kiss and leans into Ian’s neck, inhaling sharply. Ian shivers, his mouth opening around a moan once more.

The effect Anthony has on Ian should be worrying, especially since he just managed to make Ian moan by simply _breathing_ ,but Ian’s a little too busy to worry about it right now. Right now, his mind is stuck on other things, such as how Anthony’s lips are sliding down his neck, lips soft and hot against Ian’s skin, and how his hold on Ian’s hip is tighter than before.

“Ah,” Ian breathes out, tilting his head back even further when he feels Anthony start to suck a hickey on that junction between his neck and shoulder. “Fuck, Anthony.”

At the mention of his name, Anthony pulls away from Ian’s neck, the hand that’s holding both of Ian’s hands above his head letting go and slithering down to hold Ian’s hip. “That’s what we’re trying to do,” he jokes, his voice low and breathy.

Ian opens his eyes and deliberately presses forward, grinding against Anthony’s hard on through his jeans and underwear. “Don’t be smug, Anthony,” he says, enjoying the look of utter bliss that crosses his face as Ian continues to grind against him, “it doesn’t suit you.” He puts his hands on Anthony’s ass, muscular and just _begging_ to be squeezed even through his dark wash skinny jeans. “Now, I can see that there’s a bed over there,” he says, leaning forward and whispering directly into Anthony’s ear. “How about we go there, huh?”

Anthony’s grip on his hips tightens, and Ian has to swallow back an embarrassingly loud moan. “Who says we need a bed?” Anthony whispers back, grinding against Ian with abandon. “I’m fucking you against this door, Ian.”

Ian groans, head leaning back against the wooden door at Anthony’s words. “Fuck,” he gasps, feeling the white-hot trail of pleasure burn down his spine. His cock is hard and leaking, and Ian has no doubt that his boxer-briefs are most likely ruined, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he has Anthony removing his shirt in front of him, exposing hard abs and broad shoulders.

“Tell me,” Anthony whispers when he’s thrown his shirt to the floor, “do you want me to fuck you? Do you want me to pin you against this door and take you?”

“Yes,” Ian says, voice low and ragged, and from there on, everything is a blur.

Anthony leans back in and kisses Ian hard, wet and hot and possessive, his tongue twisting in Ian’s mouth like he’s making it his mission to explore everything Ian’s mouth has got to offer. His hand cups Ian’s cock through his jeans, and Ian stills, voice slipping closed as he breathes out sharply. “God, _yes_ ,” he breathes out, bucking his hips against Anthony’s touch, desperate for something tighter, something _better_.

“Good,” Anthony says, and though he says it like a master, he sounds wrecked as well, sounds like someone who’s barely holding onto the edge.

Ian thinks he likes it.

Allowing his hands to map Anthony’s back, Ian leans back in and kisses Anthony once more, enjoying the feeling of having Anthony’s mouth move against his. He allows his hands to map Anthony’s back, caressing skin and bone and muscle, thumbs moving in circles.

Anthony pulls back, and Ian pants, removing his hands from Anthony’s back and taking his shirt off with a swift movement. When he has his shirt off, Anthony crowds Ian back against the door once more, hands coming up to lightly touch the newly-exposed skin.

Pleasure curls in his belly as Anthony finally reaches down and undoes the buttons on his jeans, one hand impatiently reaching into Ian’s black boxer-briefs and gripping his cock, hot and leaking precome.

“Oh, ah, ah, yes,” Ian hisses, his hands reaching for Anthony’s jeans as well. It takes a few tries for him to actually get the damn thing to open—understandable, he thinks, considering the fact that his brain is pretty much leaking out of his cock right now—and when he finally manages to unzip Anthony’s jeans, he reaches in and thumbs the head of Anthony’s cock through his gray boxer-briefs.

When Anthony moans, low and gravelly and so completely different from Ian’s other favorite sound that Anthony makes—his high-pitched laugh when he’s genuinely happy—Ian feels heat pool down his spine. He strokes again, careful not to accidentally injure Anthony with his fingernail, and smiles when he feels a spurt of precome, wetness spreading on Anthony’s boxer-briefs.

Anthony whimpers, and his grip on Ian’s cock slackens. He leans his forehead on Ian’s shoulder, breathing heavily through his mouth, and Ian allows himself a moment to appreciate the power he holds over Anthony at this time.

“Oh come on,” he says, hand finally creeping into Anthony’s boxer-briefs to bring his cock out, “I thought you were going to fuck me against the door?”

Having heard the challenge in Ian’s voice, Anthony looks up, a wicked gleam appearing in his eyes. Almost immediately, his grip on Ian’s cock tightens, and he strokes him once, twice, three times, before abruptly stopping, smiling when he sees Ian biting his lip. “Don’t,” he says, toeing off his shoes and giving into the urge to stroke Ian once more, “you know I like to hear you.”

“Asshole,” Ian says, but it comes out fond. His hips twitch, and he sighs as he feels Anthony stroke him once more, stopping at odd intervals. It’s a little uncomfortable, considering the fact that he still has his pants and his shoes on, but he can’t bring himself to care about those right now, not when electricity is running through his veins, not when all he can focus on is the tightness of Anthony’s grip.

He rocks into Anthony’s grip, whining when Anthony stops once more. “Shit,” he says, his voice breathy. “Just fuck me already.”

Anthony stops. Ian starts to wonder what he’s done wrong, starts to wonder if this is the end of whatever this is, and his heart starts to sink. When Anthony quickly snaps back to the present, however, walking towards Ian’s nightstand and grabbing the bottle of lube and a condom from the drawer, Ian snaps back to attention and quickly takes his shoes, pants, and underwear off.

Anthony eyes him appreciatively, pupils dark as he takes his time and looks at Ian’s cock. He hands the lube and condom to Ian, quickly getting rid of his own clothes the moment Ian accepts the items. Once he’s fully naked, he takes the items back and kneels, and oh, Ian almost comes right then and there, to the sight of Anthony kneeling before him like a worshipper.

Ian has never been particularly religious, but he thinks Anthony can convince him to be if he puts his mind to it.

Ian watches, his mind a little hazy with lust, as Anthony opens the bottle of lube and spreads lube on his fingers. Anthony’s fingers don’t exactly go where Ian expects them to go, though—instead, Anthony puts his hands on Ian’s hips, his lubed fingers a little cold against Ian’s sweat-slicked skin.

His grip on Ian’s hips tightens, and that’s all the warning that Ian gets before Anthony leans in and kisses the head of Ian’s cock with an open mouth, his tongue clever and filthy as it moves in figure eights before he leans further down, taking in as much of Ian’s cock as he can. It isn’t much—probably around half of Ian’s cock, considering that Anthony isn’t as practiced at deepthroating as Ian—but it’s still heavenly. His tongue traces the veins on the underside of Ian’s cock, and his hand grasps the part that his mouth can’t quite reach, and Ian can do nothing but close his eyes and moan.

Sparks of pleasure dancing before his eyes, Ian blindly reaches down and settles his hands on Anthony’s head, fingers carding through wavy black hair and gripping hard. Anthony moans around his cock, and Ian shudders, feeling heat envelop every part of his body.

It takes him by surprise when Anthony’s lubed finger starts to circle his hole—when did Anthony remove his hands from Ian’s hips and how come he didn’t notice?—and when one finger slips in, he clenches impulsively.

“Fuck, more, Anthony, please,” Ian moans out. He sounds absolutely ravished, and he and Anthony haven’t even gotten to the main part yet.

Anthony sucks once, twice, three times, before backing off and focusing on preparing Ian, his finger relentless as he searches for that sweet spot. It takes him a few minutes to find that little bundle of nerves, but when he finally does, Ian _screams_ , his voice hoarse.

Needing to find release, Ian untangles one of his hands from Anthony’s hair, intending to jack himself off, when he finds his hand stopped from its journey to his cock. He opens his eyes and looks down, biting his lip when he finds Anthony’s eyes on him, hard and commanding.

“No,” Anthony says, voice steely with resolve. “You don’t get to touch yourself. Not tonight.” He removes his finger from inside Ian, and Ian groans, hating the emptiness he already feels.

“Please,” he whimpers.

It’s a little funny, he thinks, how Ian might be the one who’s still standing between the two of them, but he isn’t the one in power, not really. But then again, Anthony has always been this way, has always been able to command the attention of an entire room without really trying, so Ian doesn’t really know why he’s wondering about all of this.

Anthony returns Ian’s hand to his head, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “and don’t you dare do otherwise.” He opens the bottle of lube, spreads some more on his fingers, then continues to prepare Ian once more, one finger slipping in easily, then two.

“Ah, yes,” Ian murmurs, fingers tightening in Anthony’s hair. Shameless, he spreads his legs further, his head falling back against the door with a thump when Anthony starts to scissor his fingers inside him. “Fuck, _more_.”

“So needy,” Anthony says, smiling. Still, it’s not long before he adds another finger, his other hand settling on Ian’s right thigh, fingers spread. He’s trembling, Ian realizes, and his thighs are quivering under Anthony’s expert touch

When Anthony touches that sensitive bundle of nerves once more, a moan is ripped from Ian’s throat, low and unapologetically loud. He feels ready to snap, feels the heat engulfing him about to explode, and he exhales sharply, resisting the urge to start rocking his hips back and forth. “S-stop, please,” he says, one hand coming up to wipe away the sweat that’s starting to run down his forehead.

Immediately, Anthony stops, fingers coming out of Ian’s hole. “Hey, what’s wrong? I’m sorry, man—” he starts to apologize, knees shaking a little bit as he starts to stand up.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Ian says, shaking his head. He lets his hands fall from Anthony’s head, sliding down to hold onto his hips. It’s sweet, he thinks, how Anthony’s quick to react, even when they’re both a little mindless with lust. Quickly glancing down, Ian sees that Anthony’s still hard and leaking, and unable to resist the urge, Ian leans forward and kisses Anthony, tongue curling around Anthony’s. He feels sparks light up his nerves, feels warmth in his core, and he pushes Anthony against him even more, relishing in the feeling of skin against sweat-slicked skin. When his lungs start to burn, he backs off, leaning his forehead against Anthony’s. “I was about to come,” he says, truthful, “and we can’t have that, can we?”

Anthony grins. “No sir,” he says, and Ian laughs, imagining Anthony in a top hat and a monocle. He leans forward and starts kissing down the side of Ian’s neck, tongue darting out and licking a stripe on his skin. “You ready?”

“Fuck yeah,” Ian breathes out, removing his hands from Anthony’s hips.

Anthony bends down and grabs the condom and bottle of lube he left on the floor, handing the bottle to Ian once he’s fully upright once more. He opens the packet with an easy gesture—by now, he’s no doubt used to the action—and rolls the condom down his cock. Ian, seeing an opportunity, flicks the cap of the bottle open and pours lube on his hand. He reaches down and grasps Anthony in his hand, smiling at the soft little sigh that makes its way out of Anthony’s mouth. Giving into the urge, Ian strokes Anthony a few times, enjoying the sporadic bursts of profanity coming out of Anthony’s lips.

“Hold on,” Anthony says, and it’s all the warning he gets before Anthony puts his hands on Ian’s waist and holds him up long enough for Ian to wrap his legs around Anthony’s waist. Quickly, Anthony maneuvers so that his cock is pressed up against Ian’s hole, near and yet not near enough. Breathing heavily through his mouth, Ian puts his hands on Anthony’s shoulders, fingers squeezing the muscle that has built up in that area.

Slowly, Ian sinks down Anthony’s cock, and he feels the heat pooling in his groin become impossibly hotter. His head hangs forward, and he can smell that heady mix of sweat, lube, and Anthony’s cologne.

When Ian has sunk down Anthony’s entire length, they take a few seconds to collect themselves. Anthony’s muscles are trembling slightly beneath Ian’s touch, and the dark room, for a few seconds, is silent, save for their harsh breaths.

Anthony pulls back a little bit and thrusts up, making Ian gasp. Slowly, Anthony finds a rhythm he’s comfortable with, driving into Ian quicker and more forcefully, his grip on Ian’s ass tightening. Ian, for his part, does his best to hold on, one hand gripping Anthony’s shoulder as he places the other hand in the middle of Anthony’s upper back. Enjoying the shift of muscles underneath his palm, he tries to push Anthony even closer, despite the fact that there isn’t really any space between them anymore.

Anthony kisses Ian, hard and deep, messy and passionate. His tongue dances with Ian’s the way only he knows how, teasing and pleasing.

Their kisses have always been filled with filthy promise. This isn’t an exception.

His hips don’t stop thrusting, and Ian closes his eyes, his mouth slackening as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Oh, ah, ah, yes, _more_ ,” Ian breathes out, desire making him feel like he’s floating on clouds despite the bubbling heat under his skin. Anthony is hot and hard inside him, thick and just what he needs. “Anthony, please.” His legs tightening around Anthony’s waist, Ian lets one hand come up to cradle Anthony’s head against the side of his neck, a slew of curses slipping out of his mouth when Anthony follows his lead and nips lightly at the skin.

Anthony sucks at that spot just below Ian’s earlobe, and Ian’s grip on Anthony’s hair tightens. “Yeah,” he sighs, tilting his head even more to allow Anthony better access. Let Anthony mark him, he thinks, let Anthony cover him in marks and bruises, in hickeys and in handprints. Tomorrow, when he wakes up with Anthony inevitably gone from his bed, he’ll have these to remind him that this, what they’re doing right now in the dark, is real. It isn’t some figment of his imagination. And though Anthony will try his best to ignore what he and Ian have been doing for about almost a year now in secrecy, Ian will always have proof that this is real.

It’s not long before Anthony’s thrusts become erratic, his exhales almost deafeningly loud in the silence. Soft little curses spill out of his mouth, his voice so quiet that Ian wouldn’t hear the words, if only Anthony’s mouth wasn’t directly underneath Ian’s ear. Enjoying the moans coming out of Anthony’s mouth, Ian clenches around Anthony’s cock, smirking when he hears Anthony’s strangled moan.

“Gonna come,” Anthony mutters, voice breathy. “Fuck, _yes_.”

When Anthony comes, Ian makes sure to open his eyes and focus on Anthony, makes sure to notice the way his entire body tenses, frozen in this part of time.

Ian, for all that he is terrible at remembering things, remembers everything about how Anthony comes. He knows, despite not being able to see Anthony, that he’s biting his lip in an effort to try and keep the loud moans at bay, knows that Anthony has his eyes screwed shut as he chases the sparks of pleasure bursting beneath his eyelids, knows that within a few seconds, Anthony will thrust into Ian a few times as he tries to prolong his orgasm.

He’s right.

Within seconds, Anthony relaxes, and his hips drive into Ian once more. Ian closes his eyes and allows his legs to tighten even more around Anthony’s waist, pushing him forward, closer, _deeper_. Anthony backs away from that space between Ian’s neck and shoulder, kisses Ian like a man starving, and removes one of his hands from Ian’s hips.

Anthony holds Ian’s cock in his hand, and Ian’s eyes fly open. Unbidden moans make their way out of his mouth and into Anthony’s, a blaze of heat suddenly making its way down his spine as Anthony strokes him with a steady and firm grip.

Feeling his lungs scream for air, Ian parts from Anthony’s mouth and breathes in through his mouth, trying to supply his lungs the much needed air they’ve been waiting for. Anthony’s thrusts slow down, but his strokes do not—instead, they become quicker, almost ruthless in their mission to bring Ian over.

Thumbing the slit and spreading precome over the head of Ian’s cock, Anthony presses forward, reminding Ian of the fact that he’s currently pressed against his bedroom door. The angle must be awkward, Ian thinks, and there is no doubt in his head that Anthony’s wrist must be starting to hurt, and yet Anthony doesn’t stop.

Anthony thumbs the head of Ian’s cock, and Ian comes, his orgasm washing over him like a tidal wave, whiting out his vision. He’s only vaguely aware of the sounds coming out of his mouth, only vaguely aware of the way he keeps repeating Anthony’s name like a prayer, breathy.

When Ian comes back to himself, Anthony’s smiling at him, his lips curled into something soft and fond. “You okay?” he asks, his voice husky from the myriad moans ripping through his throat a while ago.

“Yeah,” Ian says, slowly starting to remove his legs from around Anthony’s waist. When he stands on his own, he stands with shaky knees and legs, still a little weak. “Are you sleeping here tonight?” Ian asks softly, not wanting to disturb the peace that has settled over the room.

Anthony shakes his head, casual as you please even as he removes the condom from his spent cock and ties it. “No. I have a date tomorrow morning.”

Ian’s heart twinges. “Who goes on dates in the morning?” he tries to joke, but he thinks it falls flat.

Anthony shrugs, walking away from the door and heading into the bathroom. “She’s a morning person, and I’m a morning person, so apparently we do.”

“You’re not a morning person,” Ian says, starting to walk towards his bed with shaky legs.

Anthony walks out of Ian’s bedroom, shrugging. “For her? I will be.”

“Oh,” Ian says, and God, he feels so stupid, even thinking about this. From the very beginning, Anthony had been clear with him—this is no-strings-attached sex, nothing more, nothing less. Anthony’s not going to _magically_ have feelings for him.

This isn’t a Harlequin novel.

“Well,” Ian says when he finally finds his voice, “have fun, then.”

“Thanks,” Anthony says, already putting his clothes back on. “Have a great night, Ian.”

Ian watches Anthony slip back into his t-shirt and nods. “You too.”

“See you,” Anthony says, shooting him a smile, before closing the door behind him.

Ian just collapses onto his bed.

This is not healthy.

-.-.-.-

This is how it starts:

Kalel and Anthony break up. Anthony calls Ian, his voice breaking as he asks him to come over to his apartment. Ian, the (pining) best friend that he is, drives over to Anthony’s place.

They talk.

They fuck.

It’s not the passionate love-making Ian had expected from Anthony, no. It’s rough and hard and fast, the desperation radiating off Anthony as he sucks a multitude of hickeys on the insides of Ian’s thighs, as he sucks Ian off with all the enthusiasm of a beginner. Afterwards, Anthony had thanked Ian, and Ian, too stunned to reply with something decent, something that might actually tell Anthony just what Ian’s _really_ feeling, had said, “no problem. Anytime, Anthony.”

And so, it began.

Anytime truly became _any time_. By now, Ian can’t count the number of times he and Anthony have almost been caught in the act when they just couldn’t wait and had to fuck in a janitor’s closet or in an empty stall in the bathroom during an all-nighter. It became such an often occurrence that both Ian and Anthony had started stocking up on travel-sized bottles of lube.

Ian’s still a little bit in love with his best friend, but he doesn’t speak up. He enjoys what they’re doing, anyway, and would rather have these little bits and pieces than nothing at all. But that’s just in the beginning. Eventually, he starts to get tired of it, starts to get sick of Anthony leaving after sex, starts to get fed up with feeling like a dirty little secret.

He tries to end it. He really, really does. He walks into rooms with an iron will to end this ridiculous friends with benefits _thing_ that they’ve somehow agreed upon, only to find himself saying yes to almost everything Anthony asks.

The words always wither in his throat.

-.-.-.-

“How’d your date go?” Ian gasps one time as he rides Anthony’s cock, fingernails raking down Anthony’s chest. Like almost every other time he and Anthony had sex, this session began with Ian walking into Anthony’s apartment, fully intending to tell him that this—what they’re doing—needs to stop.

The words died in his throat, as always.

Anthony’s grip tightens on Ian’s hips. “Badly.”

“Oh,” Ian says, then bounces up and down even quicker, chasing that sweet string of pleasure.

Any talk of Anthony’s date is forgotten after that.

 -.-.-.-

“You look like hell,” Melanie remarks, looking over at Ian with something a little bit like worry shining in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Ian says dryly, one hand self-consciously coming up in an effort to rearrange his hair into something more presentable. He looks around, directing his focus back on the open Skype session on his computer when he figures out that no one’s going to be walking into this room anytime soon. “How are you?”

Melanie shrugs. “As good as I can be,” she says. There’s a small smile playing on her lips, and Ian smiles. New York has been good to Melanie, he thinks, in a way that Sacramento has never been to her. “How about you? Still doing the do with Anthony?”

Ian double-checks that his earphones are plugged into the Macbook, feeling a little ridiculous that he’s scared of anyone hearing his best friend’s name in his and Melanie’s conversation. “Yeah,” he admits, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips into something ugly.

Melanie’s eyes widen. “This isn’t healthy.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You think I don’t know that? Of course I do. That’s why I’ve been trying to stop this.”

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Do or do not. There is no try.”

Ian narrows his eyes at her. “D-did you just quote Yoda? Really, Mel?”

“Look,” Melanie says, choosing to ignore Ian’s rather poor attempt at changing the direction of the conversation, “you’re going to have to tell him sooner or later.”

“I know,” Ian groans. Truth be told, he feels like a teenager with a crush, and the whole _talking-about-his-feelings-with-his-ex-girlfriend_ thing isn’t really helping him. His life might not be a Harlequin novel, but it sure is starting to look like some teenage girl’s secret diary, crush confessions and all.

“You know, I’m worried about you.” Melanie’s lips purse into a thin line, disapproval radiating off her even though she’s thousands of miles away from him. “You really have no sense of self-preservation.”

Ian would argue, but then again, he’s been trying to end this agreement for months now, and he hasn’t succeeded, no thanks to him. Of course, it’s also partly Anthony’s fault, but he can’t exactly talk to Anthony about that, can he?

Melanie looks at Ian and sighs. “Do you want me to give you instructions, or…?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I’ll manage just fine on my own, thanks.”

“Will you?” Melanie asks, entirely serious. “Because you’ve been trying to tell him that you love him since months ago, and you still haven’t done the damn thing. This is hurting you, Ian. I can tell.” Her tone of voice turns soft, worrying, and Ian thinks, not for the first time, that he doesn’t deserve to call Melanie a close friend.

“I’ll be fine,” Ian says, trying to reassure Melanie. He can tell that it doesn’t work, can see the doubt lingering in Melanie’s eyes, but still, he smiles at her, charming and goofy.

He’ll be all right.

He’ll make it work.

-.-.-.-

There’s a line, he thinks.

He doesn’t know where it is, but he knows for a fact that he and Anthony have crossed that line a long time ago.

-.-.-.-

Ian enters Anthony’s apartment, fully intending to talk about their current _arrangement_.

He leaves Anthony’s apartment with his throat raw from screaming and his chest aching at the knowledge that Anthony has another date the next day.

God, when will he learn?

-.-.-.-

It’s evening.

Ian’s in front of Anthony’s apartment door, breathing in deep and trying to find the self-confidence that he so sorely needs. He has his hands in his pockets and his teeth biting hard on his bottom lip, his thoughts running a mile a second as he tries to think about how he’s going to start the conversation. Should he be straight to the point? Should he try and slowly ease Anthony into the discussion Ian’s trying to have with him?

The thing is, he doesn’t really want to stop it. If he had his way, he would actually prefer for this to never end.

But he doesn’t. Have his way, that is. What he _does_ have is an agreement to have sex with the best friend he’s been slowly falling in love with over the years, and nothing more.

And he, with the years of pining and the thousands of totally useless information about Anthony that he has stored in his brain, will always want more.

Ian resists the urge to thump his head against the door. He’s usually not like this, usually not the type to agonize over something as simple as a _conversation_ , usually not the type to be so ridiculously attracted to someone that it actually _hurts_ , but there’s nothing to be done about it now, he thinks. He just kind of has to hold on for the ride.

He’s about to knock on the door when it suddenly opens. He quickly lowers his fist, smiling at Anthony. “Hey,” he says, trying to act nonchalant and failing. He looks at the white blazer Anthony’s wearing over a black button-up shirt and raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

Anthony nods, a smile spreading on his face. “Yeah,” he says, closing the door behind him as he steps into the hallway. “Why, did you need something?”

Ian is quick to shake his head. “Nothing,” he says, though there really _is_ something. “I was just, uh, coming to see if you wanted to hang out.”

“Thanks,” Anthony says, smiling at him before starting to head to the elevator. “I have a date though. We can hang out next time.”

_Son of a bitch_ , Ian thinks as he bites his lip and follows Anthony to the elevator. _Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of fucking bitch_. His chest constricts, and he feels his heart ache like it’s been hit by a sixteen-wheeler.

It’s never going to stop hurting, he realizes. It’s the sort of realization that’s not _really_ a realization, per se, more like something building in the background until the thought has finally been completed and can be pondered upon, but that doesn’t stop Ian from inhaling deeply at the sharp pang in his chest.

The elevator doors open, and Ian steps inside after Anthony.

“What’s her name?” Ian asks, needing something to distract him from the way Anthony smells, an intoxicating mixture of that clean scent only those who had recently showered possess, that curious combination of coconut and mint that Ian knows is the product of Anthony’s shampoo and hair conditioner, and that spicy smell that Ian has become intimately acquainted with over the past few months—Anthony’s cologne. It’s not the best question to ask Anthony, considering the fact that the reason why Ian’s here in the first place is so that he can, in Melanie’s words, “confess undying love and have enthusiastic, just-became-boyfriends sex,” but well, there’s nothing to be done. If he could take the words back, he would, but he just can’t without looking suspicious. And he already looked suspicious enough a while ago, when Anthony opened his apartment door to the sight of Ian getting ready to knock on said door.

Anthony smiles. He’s excited, Ian knows—his brown eyes look warm and kind, and the laugh lines already present near his eyes look deeper than normal, like he’s been smiling the entire time he had been preparing for his date. “Her name’s Belle.” His eyes take on that dreamy look, and Ian knows he’s fucked—sadly, he isn’t talking about being fucked literally. “She’s a veterinarian.”

“Well,” Ian says, his voice a little faint and his smile a little weak, “I hope you enjoy your time.”

Anthony doesn’t respond, instead choosing to shoot him a grateful smile before taking his phone from his pocket and checking it for a text. Ian, for his part, looks everywhere _but_ Anthony. He runs out of things to focus on after a few seconds, considering how small the space he and Anthony are in, but still, he does his best not to look at Anthony directly, even choosing to bring out his phone as well and mindlessly scroll through his apps.

It’s a little sad, he thinks, how he knows how to make Anthony come with his back arched and his mouth open in a silent moan, and yet doesn’t know how to make small talk with Anthony inside an elevator in his apartment building about dates and possible girlfriends.

Talk about Ian’s _priorities_.

-.-.-.-

Ian lied. _This_ is how it _really_ starts:

Things start disappearing. Late-night video game sessions fade away until it gets to that point where Ian considers himself lucky if Anthony decides that, yeah, it’s been a month since they last did this, and they should probably do it again, for old times’ sake, if not for theirs. Non-vegan food slowly disappear from Anthony’s meals. Certain t-shirts are put into one specific drawer and are never seen again.

These are just the things that Ian doesn’t notice until it’s too late. He can’t recall the exact day he discovered that it’s been almost a month since he and Anthony played on Anthony’s old NES. He can’t tell you when he realized that he hasn’t seen Anthony’s Zelda shirt in forever. He can’t remember when he looked at what Anthony’s ordered and noticed that, oh, it’s vegan, never mind the fact that Kalel isn’t eating with him. Things like these— _changes_ like these—are gradual, and, as much as Ian hates to admit it, _inevitable_ , in a way. Even if he did notice them in time, there really wasn’t anything he could do.

But then, other things start changing as well. Things that are so much more easily noticeable, things that leave physical evidence that everything is changing, no matter how much Ian doesn’t want them to.

Anthony moves to Los Angeles. He proposes to Kalel. He gets rid of his emo hair.

These are things Ian can’t quite ignore or forget. They’re more sudden and more apparent, more like a sudden heart attack than a cancer.

Somewhere in this timeline of events, Ian falls in love.

This is how it all begins.

-.-.-.-

_You’re an idiot_ , he wants to tell himself, but he can’t, no matter how much he deserves it. He can’t, because he’s gripping Anthony’s white sheets with white-knuckled hands, because his body feels like it’s on fire, and because his mouth is currently occupied, kissing Anthony like he’s eating the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden.

Ian is aware that he just made a religious metaphor. Simile. Whatever. He can’t bring himself to care, because, well, he doesn’t really have the capacity for higher brain processes such as thinking about figures of speech when Anthony is pulling away from the kiss and making his way down to press a kiss against Ian’s right nipple.

There’s something important he has to say, he knows. It takes him much longer to remember what it is, but when he does remember it, he swallows back the moan that Anthony’s ripping from the depths of his throat, and asks, “what happened to your date?”

Anthony gives him a confused look. It’s understandable, considering that Anthony’s just about to lean down and take Ian’s cock in his mouth, but Ian doesn’t allow himself to continue down that line of thought. Down that road lies madness and inevitable awkwardness, especially since his best friend is looking up at him with a puzzled expression on his face while his cock is curved upward and blocking a third of said best friend’s face.

Apparently, Anthony is thinking the same thing. “You’re asking me this now?” He glances at Ian’s cock, and God, if this wasn’t happening in real life, Ian’s pretty sure this is exactly one of those things he and Anthony would make videos about.

Ian tries to shrug. He’s not sure he succeeds, but whatever. “I need to know before we do this again,” he says, truthful. He doesn’t ask “can we stop this if you’re going to continue dating other people?” like he really wants to, because, well, he has always been weak like that. Always running away from problems, they say, and he’s not about to disagree with them anytime soon.

Anthony doesn’t roll his eyes, but Ian can tell that he _really_ wants to. “Do I look like someone who sleeps with other people when he’s in a relationship?”

He then proceeds to lean down and suck the head of Ian’s cock, his tongue filthy and perfect against the slit.

There isn’t much talking after that.

-.-.-.-

“So, what happened?” Ian asks later, when he’s more than halfway asleep, lying on his front in Anthony’s bed. The white sheets are pooled down to his waist, and though he actually wants to cover more of himself up, he’s a little too lazy and a little too sated to actually move.

Anthony’s lying on his front as well, his head on his arms. He turns his head to look at Ian, his brown eyes soft in the partial darkness. Ian, even as tired as he is, notices the way Anthony looks like a modern Greek God with only the artificial lights of Los Angeles illuminating him, and really, that just tells him how far gone he is for his best friend.

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “What happened with what?” he asks, voice low and rough, though his tone is casual. The raggedness of his voice is most likely caused by his latest attempt to learn the art of deepthroating, and Ian sighs a little happily at the memory of Anthony fingering him while sucking on his cock.

“With that girl you had a date with,” Ian says, a yawn coming out of his mouth as he says the words. “What was her name? Jasmine? Ariel? I know she had a Disney princess name.”

Anthony smiles at him, soft and fond. There’s a look in his eyes like stars twinkling in the dark sky, beautiful and ethereal, and Ian wants to bask in it like a dog enjoying the afternoon sun. It’s warm and it’s glorious and it makes Ian want to pretend for a few seconds that Anthony is in love with him too and that this is just a normal night of him spending the night at his boyfriend’s apartment.

He’s usually not romantic like this. He doesn’t know if it’s the darkness or it’s the tiredness that’s making him think these things, but he doesn’t care. He’ll forget about it tomorrow, anyway.

“Belle,” Anthony says simply. He removes his arms from beneath his head, reaching for Ian’s face with one hand. He moves the strand of hair blocking Ian’s vision with one hand in a tender movement, and Ian has to stop himself from doing something stupid like kiss his hand, or perhaps say “I love you”.

“Yeah, her.” Ian closes his eyes, feeling something like anchors attached to his eyelids. It’s a few seconds before he blinks them open once more. “What happened with her?”

“It didn’t work out,” Anthony says, his tone not allowing the matter to be discussed further, so Ian stops digging.

Instead, Ian offers him a sleepy smile, says, “you deserve better” as he yawns, and closes his eyes.

It’s the truth.

-.-.-.-

Anthony is beautiful.

It’s not something that’s entering Ian’s mind for the first time, no, but now, as Anthony sleeps, the sun’s rays illuminating his skin like burnished brass, his features relaxed in the early morning light, he is ethereal.

Ian’s heart pangs.

The sheets are rumpled around Anthony, and in this moment, as Ian does his best to be as quiet as he can while still putting on his clothes, he is forced to look at the scene before him and remember just what happened the night before.

He knew from the very start that this isn’t healthy. He should have stopped it before it fully begun, he knows, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. It’s a little too late.

Biting his lip, Ian puts on his shirt and watches as Anthony turns languidly in sleep, one hand reaching for Ian’s pillow and hugging it tight to his chest. This particular movement makes Ian’s chest constrict, and he smiles sadly to himself.

This isn’t a Harlequin novel. No matter how long he keeps this up, he won’t be able to make Anthony fall in love with him like he knows he had been subconsciously hoping for. Anthony will keep on dating other women until he meets the one, and Ian will no longer be welcome to do the things he’s doing with Anthony now. That’s just how life works.

He should be thankful that he has even this, he knows, and he _is_. It’s just—somewhere down the line, he started wanting something more, started understanding that this arrangement can never be enough for him.

Nodding to himself, he allows himself one quiet moment to just look at Anthony, bronze against the white sheets, before walking to the door.

He has to end this.

-.-.-.-

He’s in a vegan bakery.

Though the displayed donuts and cupcakes look beautiful, Ian can’t imagine eating them. Still, he buys two donuts and a bottle of water, walking to a small table near the back, where most of the customers in the shop won’t see him.

He feels like he’s preparing to break up with Anthony.

Ian hears the bell above the door ring, and he sees Anthony walk in, eyes immediately caught by the display of vegan donuts facing the door. Anthony hasn’t seen him yet, so Ian allows himself to look at Anthony, to appreciate the way Anthony’s loose white shirt hugs his biceps, to smile at the thought that underneath the new Anthony, the Anthony who’s been making an effort to eat healthier than before, lies the old one, the one who gets excited at the thought of buying donuts.

Ian looks down at his chocolate caramel donut and his S’mores donut and tries to think. What is he supposed to say?

He knows the basics, of course. He knows that the reason why he called Anthony to come here is so that he can tell him that they need to stop, but he doesn’t really know anything more than that. He has always known that he is more than sort of bad at heart-to-heart talks, but he has never been more painfully aware of this fact than now, mere minutes before telling Anthony everything.

Where does he even begin? Should he be short and direct with what he’s going to say? Or should he start from the very beginning and tell Anthony that he just can’t do it anymore because it’s started to become something that eats him alive every time he even thinks about it?

The thought of telling Anthony how he feels makes him feel physically sick. He’s not ready for this, he thinks, and though having this conversation in a public place gives Ian the assurance that he’s not going to be distracted off the conversation by Anthony kissing him, having this conversation here also basically guarantees that if their friendship falls apart because of what Ian’s going to tell Anthony, it’s going to fall apart in the presence of strangers.

Sighing, Ian opens the bottle of water and takes a small sip.

After a few more minutes of fidgeting in his seat and wondering what the hell is taking Anthony so long to order donuts when there are five other customers in the shop, including Ian, Anthony finally appears with a small box of donuts, a bottle of water, and a wide grin on his face.

“Check out what I got,” Anthony says, smiling, his eyes bright like the sun appearing from behind the clouds.

He also has a piece of paper with somebody called _Giselle_ ’s number.

Ian’s heart sinks like a stone to his stomach. “Oh.” Quickly, he smiles up at him, not letting Anthony see the way Ian feels a little like he’s bleeding on the inside. “Congrats, man.”

Anthony sits in front of him, hands quick as they open the small box of donuts, his smile still wide on his face.

Ian looks at the crinkles in the corner of his eyes and tries not to vomit.

Maybe, in his own way, Anthony’s ending the arrangement for both of them.

-.-.-.-

“Oh,” Ian gasps, his hands scrabbling for anything he can hold onto as he leans forward, onto the wet white tiles of Anthony’s shower. A groan is ripped out from his throat when Anthony rocks forward and kisses his shoulder.

Anthony’s thrusts become faster and less calculated, and Ian knows that Anthony’s close, knows that they’re both nearing the edge, knows that they’re both about to fall.

When Anthony comes, his moan is muffled by Ian’s right shoulder and his grip on Ian’s hips tighten. It’s not long before he remembers where he is and who he’s with, and he transfers one hand to Ian’s cock, stroking him fast and hard and just the way he knows Ian likes it when Ian’s about to come.

Ian comes, and he sees stars explode beneath his eyelids, feels himself come apart and then pieced together, cell by cell.

When he comes back to himself, he sighs happily as he feels Anthony’s thumb softly moving in circles over Ian’s skin where he’s still holding onto Ian’s hip. The water has long turned cold, and Ian shivers a little, breathing through his mouth as he opens his eyes and looks at his hands, still curled into fists on the white tiles.

Anthony leaves him to turn the shower off, and Ian turns around, blinking. “You okay?” Anthony asks, concern radiating from his tone. His hair, even wet as it is, is already starting to curl on the edges, and Ian has to restrain himself from reaching out and carding his fingers through Anthony’s hair.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Ian says, his voice more than a little rough. He takes the towel Anthony offers him and starts patting himself down. He wants to ask what happened with Giselle—wants to ask what it is with Anthony’s preference for girls whose names end with “el” or “elle”—but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be nosy anymore. If Anthony wants to tell him about his dates, he will.

Anthony, patting himself down with his own towel, glances at Ian. He apparently sees the unasked question in Ian’s eyes, because he gives him a soft smile. “Giselle saw her ex at the restaurant. I was a rebound.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry.”

Anthony slides the glass and steps out of the shower. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

Ian looks at the emerald green towel he wrapped around his waist, looks at Anthony’s bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel, and thinks.

Was _he_ Anthony’s rebound?

It’s an unpleasant thought, and as much as he hates to admit it, it’s something that’s only entered his mind _now_ , almost a year since this started. At first, he had been entirely too relieved that Anthony was willing to get into this arrangement with him since it meant that Ian could have sex with him and see if his feelings for him would fade away, and so he never really worried about him being Anthony’s rebound. But now…the thought tastes bitter in his mouth.

Why is he worrying about this? From the very beginning, he knew what he was getting himself into. He knew there wasn’t a chance of him and Anthony falling into a relationship with each other, so why is he feeling pinpricks on his heart at the thought of him being Anthony’s rebound?

Sighing, Ian steps out of the shower. He’s not going to think about it anymore.

-.-.-.-

This is how it ends:

They’re on Ian’s bed. Anthony is kissing the side of Ian’s neck as he fucks into him with steady thrusts, his hands sliding upward to press Ian’s hands lightly against the white sheets. Ian has his eyes closed and his mouth occupied with breathing out Anthony’s name like an oath or perhaps like a prayer, but still, he doesn’t miss that exact moment when Anthony intertwines his fingers with Ian’s.

It’s intimate in a way that Ian isn’t used to.

He doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the way Anthony’s holding his hands like this is something precious and tender, not a booty call between friends, or maybe it’s the way he’s cradling Anthony between his legs like a treasure he has to guard from evil. Maybe it’s the way Anthony is pressing kisses against his neck, or maybe it’s Anthony rocking forward and his cock grazing that bundle of nerves inside Ian, lighting him up like streaks of lightning in a storm-darkened sky.

He doesn’t know what it is, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because the moment Anthony fucks against Ian’s prostate, the filter between his thoughts and his mouth fades away, and he breathes out, “I love you.”

It doesn’t matter, because when he realizes what he’s just said, his eyes fly open, and he knows that he can’t take the words back.

Anthony freezes. “What?”

“Wait, let me explain,” Ian starts to say, biting his lip when Anthony slips out from him and gets off the bed. Whatever kind of intimacy he felt before is gone, coldly taken away from him by words he hadn’t meant to let slip past his lips.

“Explain what?” Anthony asks, hysteria making his voice rise in pitch. He bends down and grabs his gray boxers, quickly putting them on even as his hands shake slightly.

Ian feels empty. He sits up against the headboard and folds his legs, putting his arms around his legs, absently trying to be smaller than he really is. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, wants to somehow rewind back time so he can stop himself from making the mistake he just made.

Ian doesn’t know where to begin. However, needing to say something before Anthony walks out of his bedroom, he settles for saying, “I’m sorry” first.

Anthony’s laugh is cruel when he says, “I’m sorry? Sorry for what? Basically using me?”

Ian’s jaw tightens. “ _Using you_? Between the two of us, who here called whom?” He clenches his fist, his fingernails digging into skin.

Anthony pulls up his skinny jeans with jerky movements, the desire to quickly get out of Ian’s immediate presence stripping away the grace Anthony usually has. “Yeah, well who here entered this agreement thinking that he knew what he was getting into? Spoiler alert, it wasn’t you,” he spits out, anger making his normally warm eyes seem cold. “For fuck’s sake, Ian, you’re in love with me! Did it ever enter your mind that you probably should have told me that before we got into this? That you should have explained this to me before I had sex with you?”

Ian _had_ thought that he knew what he was getting into, though he chooses not to tell Anthony that. Anthony, he reminds himself, has the right to be angry with him, because as much as he hates to admit it, he is right. Ian had initially gotten into this agreement with Anthony because he wanted to test his theory that maybe once he’s had Anthony, he’ll stop wanting him. Obviously, he’s wrong, but it’s not something he wants to think about right now.

“Please, just listen to me,” Ian says, getting out of bed and grabbing his jeans from the floor. He’s not used to asking Anthony for anything—in all their years of friendship, asking had faded away, and sharing things between them just sort of became a given—but now, he’s willing to ask, even to beg, just for a chance to explain himself. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

Anthony points at him with an accusing finger, shirt still clutched tightly in his hand. “ _Not like you had a choice_? How about not agreeing to do this with me? How about telling me this before we started having sex?”

“Oh, and what, do you really think it would have gone well if I told you I loved you when you called me because you and Kalel broke up?” Ian puts his shirt on, quick and efficient. “I didn’t ask to be in love with you, you asshole. And you know what? When we first fucked, I knew that it might just be the only way I would be able to help you after you and Kalel broke up.” He inhales sharply, feeling the anger leave him in an almost dizzying rush. “I promise you, I tried ending it. Really.”

Anthony doesn’t believe him. He knows, because Anthony puts his shirt on and doesn’t say a word.

“Anthony, I love you,” he says. It’s a last resort, something he hopes will be able to make Anthony stay still and give Ian a chance to explain everything.

Anthony shoots him a cold look, betrayal lurking in the corners of his eyes, and shakes his head. “I don’t love you,” he says, the words cutting through Ian like a physical knife.

He leaves, and Ian collapses on the bed, his knees no longer able to support his weight. He feels empty, feels so damn tired, feels a little bit like he’s missing something important inside. His heart is a deadweight in his chest, and there’s the cold, seeping into his bones, turning his blood into ice.

He wants to run after Anthony, but what is that going to achieve? He knows Anthony’s not going to listen to him.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Life isn’t a Harlequin novel, he knows, and the things that happen in those don’t normally happen in real life.

He falls back on the bed, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare at the ceiling, and bites his lip.

He had wanted to end this, right? Well, he succeeded.

Who knew “I love you” were the perfect words to end this arrangement?

Ian certainly didn’t.

-.-.-.-

It’s been a week.

Ian still feels echoes of pain radiating from his chest. His bed is still a reminder of just what’s making everything so difficult for him, and the sheets, though white, don’t look innocent and pure at all. In fact, they’re still rumpled, left behind in the exact same state they were in when Anthony left Ian’s bedroom that night, and the bed itself has been ignored in favor of the guest room’s bed which has a slightly less comfortable mattress but has none of the memories Ian’s actual bed has.

Anthony’s been avoiding him. It’s obvious from the way he’s no longer responding to Ian’s texts, only answering calls in case Ian’s been calling him about an emergency. He’s less active on social media, as well, and the fans are starting to notice.

However, Anthony can’t avoid Ian forever. They have a business to run, after all, and ideas to bounce back and forth to keep said business alive.

After a brainstorming session, Ian chases Anthony down a hallway, his voice soft and pleading as he asks, “can we talk?”

Anthony looks at Ian, really looks at him, and sighs. He must see the bags under Ian’s eyes, the slightly nervous tremor of his hands, and the way Ian looks just barely kept together, because he nods.

Ian releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Right,” he says, nodding to himself. “Coffee?”

This is how they end up in a Starbucks around the corner, with their takeaway drinks held in tight grips. They’re seated inside, at a tall table with stools that is mostly hidden away from sight.

Ian is the first to talk. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He means it. He tries to look at Anthony in the eye to let him know the gravity of what Ian is saying, but Anthony keeps avoiding him, always keeping his eyes somewhere above and to the right of Ian’s eyes.

Ian feels a lump start to rise in his throat, but he goes on. “I did tell you the truth, if you were wondering.” He looks down, unable to bear seeing Anthony avoid his gaze. “I know I should have tried harder to end it. I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough.”

He chews on his lip, thinking about what he’s going to say first. The Starbucks they’re in is mostly silent, with only the soft sounds of various equipment and the café music playing quietly in the background keeping the entire place from being enveloped in deafening silence.

“I, uh, I was attracted to you before we first had sex,” he admits. The admission leaves him feeling kind of airy, like getting the words out made that heavy stone in his stomach fade away. “I don’t know when I specifically started seeing you that way, though. I mean, we’ve been friends for a long time.” The _“it was bound to happen”_ is unspoken, though Ian knows Anthony hears it.

“I’m sorry I got into this the way I did.” Ian looks up, and upon finding Anthony still avoiding his gaze, he looks back down again. “I have to admit that I agreed to do it because some part of me thought that once I had sex with you, I would stop feeling the way I did for you, and I’m sorry for that as well.”

Ian’s not good at talking about feelings. He really isn’t. But right here, right now, with Anthony avoiding his eyes and looking as still as a statue, the desperation to fill the space around them with words to combat the awkward silence that’s about to descend on them both is stronger than the discomfort he’s feeling as he lays his heart bare.

So he talks.

“Look,” Ian says, finally looking up and looking straight at Anthony. “I don’t expect you to forgive me quickly, and I sure as hell don’t expect you to love me back. But please just think about what I said.” He inhales sharply. “You’re my best friend, Anthony, and I don’t want this to ruin what we had even before we had this arrangement.”

Anthony’s gaze flickers to him. His eyes are still as cold as Ian last saw them, the warmth Ian is used to seeing directed at him locked away by wrought iron gates and barbed wire. When he looks at Ian, however, the icy cold in his eyes melts a little bit, and Ian, upon seeing this, allows himself to hope.

“Are you done?” he asks, his tone not unkind.

“Just think about it.”

Anthony nods. “I will,” he says, his voice soft. He offers Ian a faint smile, then gets out of his seat and walks away, soy latte in hand.

It’s a little while before Ian moves.

-.-.-.-

“I’m sorry.”

It’s evening. The sky is dark outside, and though he really should stand up and turn the lights on so Melanie could see him better, he doesn’t, instead turning his laptop on beside him so Melanie can see at least some vague features through Facetime.

Ian shoots Melanie a shaky smile. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. If anything, it was mine. You kept telling me to tell him and I kept putting it off.”

Melanie yawns. Ian feels guilt wash over him—he had forgotten about time zones, and Melanie must be tired, considering that it’s nearly midnight in New York—but he keeps quiet about it. Melanie, he knows, will just argue with him if he tells her to not worry about his personal problems and get some sleep. She’s a great friend like that, and not for the first time, Ian thinks that he really doesn’t deserve to have her as a close friend.

“Still,” she says when she’s gotten her yawning under control. “I’m sorry. I wish it didn’t suck this much for you.”

“You and me both, Mel,” he says, closing his eyes for a little bit.

“How are you?” she asks, concerned.

“I’m fine,” he says, opening his eyes. He doesn’t tell her that he still avoids looking at his own bed because looking at it reminds him a little too much of what happened between him and Anthony. He doesn’t tell her that he hasn’t slept a full night’s sleep since he and Anthony had that fight, doesn’t tell her that he hasn’t spoken to Anthony outside of talking about business matters since their conversation at Starbucks, doesn’t tell her that he’s been sleeping in his guest room ever since that night, because lying on his bed makes him think about all the times that Anthony fell asleep with him in that same bed, with his arm carelessly slung over Ian’s waist and his soft breaths tickling the back of Ian’s beck.

He doesn’t tell her any of this, because he knows that if he told her, she would be even more worried for him, and really, Ian already feels pathetic as it is, talking about his feelings for his best friend with his ex.

Melanie looks at him with a critical eye. “No you’re not,” she says, sure.

Ian sighs. “No I’m not,” he agrees. “I’m going to try to be, though.”

There are questions— _of course_ , there are questions. Melanie doesn’t ask any of them, though, and Ian is thankful.

He truly doesn’t deserve her.

-.-.-.-

This is how it begins again:

Ian is lying on his sofa, blinking every now and then to keep himself from falling asleep. Daisy is lying on the floor beside the sofa, quiet as she watches House of Cards with him.

The doorbell rings, a little too loud even with the television on, and Ian gets up, lethargy making his every movement slow. He pauses the show with a press of the remote and avoids stepping on Daisy, walking towards the door.

This isn’t a Harlequin novel. He knows that.

Anthony apparently gotten the memo, because when Ian opens the door, he opens it to Anthony, standing stiffly in the way all those who are nervous and are about to have the Talk are. There’s a worried look on his face and a bruised look to his bottom lip, like he’s been chewing on it the entire time he was driving towards Ian’s house. His clothes, though clean, look rumpled, as if he had already changed into his house clothes when he decided to change back into civvies and go to Ian’s.

Ian opens his mouth, only to close it again when he realizes that he really _is_ speechless. He feels vaguely like a goldfish.

Anthony, for his part, looks both uncomfortable and hesitant, standing there on the other side of the doorway with the uncertainty clear in his brown eyes. Even looking like he does, he’s still unbelievably attractive, still ridiculously what Ian wants.

Seeing him here makes Ian inhale sharply, memories of their time together rising to the surface. Suddenly, he feels too hot and too cold at the same time, feels the phantom press of Anthony’s lips against the side of his neck, feels Anthony’s fingers gripping his hair tight, feels the slide of sweaty skin against sweaty skin as they raced towards completion, and he shivers reflexively.

It also makes his heart twinge painfully, but he ignores that.

“Hey,” Anthony begins, bringing one hand up to his head so he can card his fingers through his hair, “you asked me to think about it, and I thought about it.”

Ian can hardly believe it. “Really?” he asks, feeling a little like he’s dreaming. He doesn’t want to lose his friendship with Anthony over such a stupid little thing like _feelings_ , and if Anthony’s willing to talk to him after that clusterfuck of an agreement, well then it’s good news. His heart certainly seems to agree with him, seeing as it’s no longer hurting as badly as before.

Anthony nods. He also offers Ian a hopeful smile, beautiful in the way the edges curl upwards gently, slowly, like a sunrise. The gates in his eyes have gone down, and in place of the icy cold is the warmth that Ian had gotten used to, the warmth that he so sorely misses.

“So, can I come in?”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Smosh. I do not make money from this.


End file.
